University of Virginia Library

3. III.

`How little, my friend, can a man of acute, lively sensibilities
calculate upon the experience that awaits him!
A skilful devotee of science can predict, with a good degree
of certainty, the approach of celestial phenomena,
the existence of unseen fountains, and even the direction
of the unborn breeze; but who has the foresight to prophecy
the destiny of feeling—to indicate the next new
influence which shall arouse it, to trace its untravelled
course, or point confidently to its issue? A man conscious
of a fathomless tide of feeling within him, who throws
himself into a world of moral excitements, knows but

this, that he is doomed to feel deeply, variously, often to
suffer agony—often to enjoy delight. But the very means
he thought would prove most magnetic, may absolutely
fail to attract, and some unexpected agency, of which he
dreamed not, may approach the unguarded portal of his
soul, and take it by surprise. Such was my experience
when I trusted myself to dramatic influences. I had
thought to be subject to them as a philosopher; but while
seeking this end I was taught most emphatically to realize
my own humanity.

`The leading actress on the Edinburgh boards at the
period to which I refer, was Helen Trevor. This was
not, indeed, the name by which she was known to the
public; for being the daughter of a distinguished performer,
it was deemed expedient for her to appear under
her mother's family name, which was one of the highest in
the annals of the British stage. I first saw her in Virginia,
and never, no, never can I forget that memorable
evening. In the first act, when Virginius says to Servia,
`Go fetch her to me,' I observed all around me silent and
intent from expectation. It was not till the deafening
greetings had subsided, that I raised my eyes, and then
my cherished ideal of female beauty was realized. The
chaste dress of white muslin—the thick dark ringlets
about the neck—the simple girdle—the little satin band
around the beautiful brow—the quiet, gentle and touching
simplicity of the air and accents—all, all are before me.
How deeply I sympathised in the indignation of Virginius—how
I wept when he recited his daughter's praises!
Unfortunately, the part of Icilius was played by a novice.

Had it been otherwise, perhaps my emotions, overpowering
as they were, might have been subdued; but while all
the other characters satisfied me, his, Virginia's lover's,
the very part with which I felt myself identified, was
shamefully weak. I was absolutely maddened. The theatre
vanished from my mind. I thought of nothing,
cared for nothing but that fair young creature, and
the idea possessed me, with a frightful tenacity, that
I should one day be the true Icilius. As the play proceeded
I became more and more lost in this idea. It was
only when the wretched personator of the Roman lover
came on, that the illusion vanished. And then a bitter
and impatient hatred possessed me. I longed to clutch
the young man, and hurl him away. And when the
Roman father, in solemn and touching tones, said—
I tremblingly ejaculated, `We are, we are.' A lady in the
box thought I was faint and proffered her salts. I took
the vial mechanically, but was not recalled; for a moment
after, when the words reached my enamoured ear—
the query seemed addressed to me; unable longer to contain
what rushed to my lips, I rose, sprang upon the seat,
and shouted, `I will, I will'—but the words were broken
—I felt a hand close tightly over my mouth, and myself
lifted into the lobby, whence I was hurried, without a
word, into a hackney coach, by the dim lights of which I
discovered Mr. Connington, who had firmly grasped one
arm, while a gentleman, whom I recognised as an occupant
of the box, held the other. They evidently thought
me mad.

`This adventure was a salutary and timely lesson.
Never again did I betray any emotion. But I felt the
more. The drama which I had fancied would produce
such mighty effects on my mind, was nothing except as
it was associated with her. O my friend, you can have
no idea of what mingled ecstacy and bitterness is involved
in the love of an object of public admiration! Sometimes
I would have given worlds if Helen had been a
tradesman's daughter, living in honorable obscurity, and
then when evening came, I saw her personating the
grandest female characters of history, arrayed in an ideal
costume, uttering the noblest sentiments, and appearing
as the faithful, the self-denying, the beautiful representative
of her sex; and then, in those moments, I wished
her ever to be the same. But poor Shakspeare! where
was my reverence for him? Strange fantasy, the world
would have thought, had I written a new commentary on
his tragedies, to declare that the most eloquent line in Romeo
and Juliet was Lady Capulet's, `Nurse, where's my
daughter? call her forth to me'—and in Othello's speech,
the most awakening phrase the last, `Here comes my lady,

let her witness it.' Yet such they were to me, for
they called first upon the stage Juliet and Desdemona.

`Many weeks flew by, and my time was ostensibly divided
between Blackstone and the drama. My kinsman
frequently applauded this rare union of rational and imaginative
studies. `Few young men, cousin Frank,' he
would say, `choose so wisely. I perceive you did not
study the philosophy of the human mind, at St. Andrews,
in vain. Here you devote the day to legal investigations,
which, questionless, have a tendency to invigorate the understanding,
to create just habits of thinking, and train
the judgment; then your evenings are given to the greatest
imaginative amusement of this utilitarian age. You
cultivate a taste for the drama. Well, well, cousin, we'll
make a fine fellow of you yet.' In these remarks Mr.
Connington would coincide, neutralizing his praises
with the observation that Mr. Graham's dramatic criticisms
were, somehow or other, more vague and less to the
purpose, than before he attended the theatre.' Neither
of these sage observers of human nature, however, had
the least idea of the true state of the case. And, indeed,
it was not till late that I myself discovered with wonder
which partook strangely of regret and gladness, that it
was not Cordelia or Virginia that I loved, but Helen
Trevor.